Fourteenyearold Michael feels like the whole world is against him or rather, it just refuses to understand him.
Here comes that troublemaker again! mutters Aunt Clara from the third stairwell, hurrying to the other side of the courtyard. One mother raising a child. No wonder it turns out like this!
Michael walks past, hands shoved into the pockets of his ragged jeans, pretending not to hear. He does hear.
His mum is working late again. On the kitchen table lies a note: Meatballs in the fridge heat them up. The house is quiet. Always quiet.
Hes just left school, where the teachers have once more had a word with him about his behaviour. As if he doesnt know hes become a problem for everyone. He does know. What does that change?
Hey, lad! calls Uncle Victor from the flat on the ground floor. Seen a limping dog around here? We ought to chase it off.
Michael stops and looks.
Near the bin bags a dog lies. Not a puppy a fullgrown, gingerspotted hound. Hes motionless, his eyes tracking everyone. Those eyes are sharp and sad.
Someone should get rid of him! Aunt Clara adds. He must be sick!
Michael steps closer. The dog doesnt move, only gives a weak wag. On a hind leg a ragged wound oozes dark blood.
What are you doing? Uncle Victor snaps. Grab a stick and shoo him away!
Something inside Michael snaps.
Dont you dare touch him! he shouts, lunging toward the dog and shielding it. He isnt hurting anyone!
Uncle Victor looks taken aback. Well, Ill be a protector appears.
Ill protect him! Michael sits beside the dog, reaching out carefully. The animal sniffs his fingers and licks his palm.
A warm rush spreads through Michaels chest. For the first time in ages, someone treats him kindly.
Come on, he whispers to the dog. Come with me.
Back home he fashions a makeshift bed from old jackets in the corner of his room. Mum wont be back until evening, so no one will yell at the intruder.
The wound looks bad. Michael fires up his laptop, finds articles on firstaid for animals, and reads through the medical jargon, memorising each step.
It needs a hydrogenperoxide rinse, he mutters, rummaging through the kitchen cupboard. Then a dab of iodine on the edges. Gently, so it doesnt hurt.
The dog lies calmly, offering the injured leg. He looks at Michael with gratitude the first real look hes ever received.
Whats your name? Michael asks while bandaging the paw. Youre ginger should I call you Rusty?
The dog lets out a soft bark, as if agreeing.
Evening comes, and Mum returns. Michael braces for a scolding, but she merely glances at Rusty, runs a hand over the bandage.
You did this yourself? she asks quietly.
Yeah. I looked it up online.
What will you feed him?
Ill figure something out.
Mum watches her son for a long moment, then the dog, which is licking her hand affectionately.
Well take him to the vet tomorrow, she decides. See what they say about the leg. Have you thought of a proper name?
Rusty, Michael replies, his voice thin.
For the first time in months theres no invisible wall between them.
The next morning Michael rises an hour early. Rusty tries to stand, whimpering with pain.
Stay down, Michael comforts him. Ill fetch water and something to eat.
Theres no dog food left, so Michael tears up the last meatball, soaks a slice of bread in milk, and offers it. Rusty gobbles it hungrily, licking every crumb.
At school Michael manages to stay out of trouble with the teachers, his mind constantly drifting to Rusty. Is the leg hurting? Is he lonely?
Youre a bit off today, his form tutor notes, puzzled.
Michael just shrugs. He doesnt want to explain theyd probably laugh.
After school he darts home, ignoring the disapproving glances of neighbours. Rusty greets him with a wag, able to stand on three legs now.
Ready for a walk, mate? Michael says, tying a rope to the leash. Take it easy on that leg.
In the courtyard a scene unfolds. Aunt Clara spots them and hisses:
That boy dragged him home! Michael, have you lost your mind?
Whats wrong with that? Michael replies calmly. Im nursing him back to health.
Treating him? a neighbour chimes in. Where do you get the money for medication? Stealing from your mum?
Michael clenches his fists but holds back. Rusty leans against his leg, sensing the tension.
Im not stealing. Im using my own savings, he says quietly, recalling the pennies he saved from breakfast crumbs.
Uncle Victor shakes his head. Boy, youve taken on a living creature. Its not a toy. Youve got to feed, treat, and walk it.
Every day now starts with a walk. Rustys leg heals, and he can run, though he still limps a little. Michael spends hours teaching him commands, patience wearing thin.
Sit! Good lad! Give paw! Thats it! he urges.
Neighbours watch from their windows, some shaking heads, others smiling. Michael notices only Rustys devoted eyes.
He changes. Not overnight, but gradually. He stops being rude, helps around the house, his grades improve. A purpose glimmers, and its only the beginning.
Three weeks later the worst fear materialises.
Michael and Rusty are out for an evening stroll when a pack of stray mongrels bursts from behind the garage five or six snarling dogs with eyes like coals. The leader, a massive black dog, snarls and charges forward.
Rusty instinctively retreats behind Michael, his sore leg still tender. The pack smells weakness.
Back! Michael shouts, brandishing the leash. Get out of here!
The horde doesnt retreat; they close in. The black leader growls louder, ready to pounce.
Michael! a womans voice cries from above. Run! Drop the dog and run!
Its Aunt Clara, leaning out of her flat window, with a few other neighbours peering down.
Dont be a hero, lad! Uncle Victor yells. Hes limping; he wont get away!
Michael glances at Rusty, who trembles but stays glued to his owners leg, ready to share any fate.
The black dog leaps first. Michael instinctively shields himself, but a bite lands on his shoulder. Sharp teeth tear his jacket and scrape his skin.
Despite the pain, Rusty, despite his injured paw and fear, lunges at the leader, clamping his jaws onto the black dogs leg and hanging on with his whole body.
A chaotic brawl erupts. Michael kicks, punches, and tries to protect Rusty from the snapping jaws. He gets bitten and scratched, yet refuses to back down.
Lord, what is happening! Aunt Clara screams from the window. Victor, do something!
Uncle Victor rushes down the stairs, grabs a garden rake and a piece of rebar anything he can find.
Hold on, lad! he shouts. Im coming!
Just as Michael feels the pack overwhelming him, a familiar voice roars:
Out of the way!
His mum bursts from the stairwell, bucket of water in hand, dousing the dogs. The pack recoils, snarling.
Victor, help! she shouts.
Victor darts forward with the rake, while a few other neighbours descend from the upper flats. Realising theyre outnumbered, the stray dogs scatter.
Michael lies on the pavement, clutching Rusty. Both are bloodied and shaking, but alive.
Son, his mum sits beside him, gently checking his cuts. You gave me a fright.
I couldnt abandon him, Michael whispers. Do you understand? I couldnt.
I do, she replies softly.
Aunt Clara steps into the yard, eyes wide, as if seeing Michael for the first time.
Boy, she stammers, you could have you know.
It wasnt because of the dog, Uncle Victor interjects. It was for a friend. You get the difference, Clara?
She nods, tears glistening.
Lets get home and treat the wounds, his mum says. Rusty too.
Michael struggles to his feet, lifts the dog onto his arms. Rusty whimpers, his tail barely twitching, relieved to have his owner near.
Wait, Uncle Victor calls out. Will you take him to the vet tomorrow?
Yes, Michael answers.
Ill drive. Ill cover the vet bills the dogs a hero, after all.
Michael looks at Victor, surprised.
Thank you, Uncle Vic. But Ill pay you back later.
Dont worry. Youll earn it, Victor pats his shoulder. Were proud of you, lad. Right?
The neighbours nod quietly.
A month passes. On a typical October evening Michael returns from the veterinary clinic, where he now volunteers on weekends. Rusty runs beside him, his leg fully healed, his limp almost gone.
Michael! Aunt Clara calls, rushing over. Hold on a sec!
She hands him a bag of premium dog food.
Its for Rusty, she says, embarrassed. Good quality, a bit pricey. Youve been looking after him so well.
Thanks, Aunt Clara, Michael replies earnestly. We actually have food, but Im now earning a little at the clinic. DrAnna pays us.
Take it anyway, she insists. Youll need it later.
At home mum prepares dinner. Seeing her son, she smiles.
Hows the clinic today? DrAnna happy with you?
She says I have steady hands and patience, Michael says, patting Rustys head. Maybe Ill become a vet one day. Im serious about it.
Hows school?
Fine. Even MrPeterson from physics praises my focus.
Mum nods. In the past month Michael has transformed. Hes polite, helps around, greets neighbours, and now has a clear goal.
You know, she says, Victor is coming tomorrow. He wants to offer you another sidejob helping at a breeders for his friend.
Really? Can I bring Rusty?
I think so. Hes practically a working dog now.
That night Michael sits in the courtyard, training Rusty on a new command guard. The dog obeys, eyes locked on his owner.
Uncle Victor joins him on the bench.
Youre definitely going to the breeder tomorrow? he asks.
Yes. With Rusty.
Then get some rest. Itll be a long day.
Victor leaves, and Michael lingers a moment longer. Rusty rests his head on Michaels knee, sighing contentedly.
They have found each other. And they will never be alone again.